


More than a Man

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Childhood Friends, Dark!Molly, F/M, His Last Vow, Learning to feels, Obsession, Protective (but not very helpful) Mycroft, Secret Past, The Great Game, The Sign of Three, molliarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:31:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly gets a shock visitor in the morgue - but what does Jim want with her, and what does he want with Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Hello, my own.”

The brunette froze, her needle hovering above the last stitch. Molly turned, eyes wide and startled, sure she was dreaming.

“Jim?” she gasped, clutching at the table for support and inadvertently bumping into her pale patient.

He stood at ease, hands in his pockets, jacket slung in the crook of his elbow casually. He was smiling but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You look well. How long has it been, Molly?” His voice was dangerously soft.

“Um, I-I’m not sure.”

“Yes, you are.” Jim’s eyes were dark granite as he stepped closer, pressing her until the metal lip of the table bit into her back.

Her body responded to his nearness immediately, rocketing back into old habits faster than she could think. She felt too hot, too small, too stretched. Molly dragged her eyes away from his and took a breath to calm herself. “What do you want?”

He raised a thumb and brushed her trembling lips gently. “You.”

She felt a tug in her chest at the sweet low tone, the bright piercing eyes, but she tried to remember all the reasons she left.

“Why?” she demanded, when what she really meant was _Why now?_

“Because, Moll. We’re right for each other.”

 “I’m not that girl anymore. I’m mostly normal. Look!” she gestured vaguely at the morgue.

“I am looking, Moll. Wanna know what I see?” he leaned closer, lips resting just above her ear, “Fire, smouldering just below the surface where no one notices. Fire afraid of being snuffed out. I never smothered your flames, my own.”

“Y-y-you shouldn’t be here.” She avoided his gaze desperately.

“Because I’m right? Because it’s _you_ who shouldn’t be here?”

 

She couldn’t look – he was all around her, hot flesh pushing against hers through the satiny layer of his shirt. She mentally dug her nails into that picture of who she wanted to be, how far she’d come, and then she met Jim’s gaze.

“Don’t you love me anymore, my own?” he said it with a coy smile but she’d known him the longest, could see the sincerity.

“I shouldn’t. You’re dangerous.”

“Am I? Am I dangerous to you?”

She bit her lip, wanting so painfully to reach up and touch his face. “Yes.”

Jim laughed. “I want you to introduce me to someone.”

“Who could _I_ possibly introduce _you_ to?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He whispered the name reverently, looking almost as awed as Molly herself.

“Why? You’re not going to…well, do something to him, are you?” she panicked, suddenly afraid Jim was playing the jealous lover.

“It’s not about you, dearest.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m going to send him a message. Is there a problem?”

She felt like there was something stuck in her throat but swallowing did nothing to help.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about?” she said, trying not to hate herself and almost succeeding.

“I just told you.”

“No, you gave one of your cryptic assurances. What do you want with Sherlock?”

His features hardened. “It doesn’t work that way, Moll. You only get to play for one team.”

“I haven’t picked yours yet.”

He raised a brow. “And you think there’s even the slightest chance you won’t?”

“I’m not a sad teenager now.”

“No, you’re a sad single thirty-something wasting her potential.”

She could taste the anger thick and bitter on her tongue. “Always so sure of yourself, aren’t you? Always so clever, getting in my head! Well I know some things about you, _James_ , so don’t think I’ll be swept away by the show like everyone else!”

She was panting slightly, chest tight as he stared at her. Then Jim’s arms closed around her waist and hers shot up over his shoulders, and by a combined bodily lunge they fell back onto the nearest unoccupied cold metal table. Jim’s fingers were powerful and severe as he ripped her trousers open but Molly could feel the frantic need underneath.

“It’s alright, Jimmy, I’m yours, I’m yours, always yours.”

“You promise? You promise, my own? You won’t leave again?” he muttered as he battered her neck with kisses.

She wrapped her legs tighter around him as he slid inside. “I promise.”

*****

He was lounging over her couch, tapping away on his phone with a look of unrestrained glee. It made Molly feel very young again and a little giddy, but some part of her held onto old concerns. “What mischief are you up to now?”

“Do you really want to know?” Jim asked, actually looking interested in her answer.

“Maybe. Maybe not yet.” She screwed up her nose.

“All in time, my sweet. Come keep me company.” He raised his arm, inviting her in.

Molly snuggled up against the genius gladly, resting her head on his lap as he stroked her curls.

“Do you remember that night we went down to the river and sat up til sunrise?” he said softly.

Molly smiled. “You almost fell asleep twice.”

“And your mother grounded you for two weeks.”

“And you snuck in through my window to see me anyway,” Molly’s smile changed slowly into something else, and she reached out a hand to grab Jim’s, “I missed you.”

He kissed their joined fingers. “I know.”

 

“Jim, I’ve got to head over to St Bart’s. There’s been some kind of weird accident and they need all hands on deck.” Molly said breathlessly as she wrapped a scarf around her neck.

He didn’t look up from the TV. “Be careful, my darling.”

Molly was not a child. She knew when Jim was hiding something, was probably the only person on Earth who knew it. The too-casual way he brushed her off was highly suspicious. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

She walked down to the street and slipped into an all-night deli where she could see the flat’s front door. Molly waited for ten minutes, and was about to give up and go to the hospital anyway when a black car arrived and Jim left the building, sliding into the back seat. The car turned down the road and Molly ran out to hail a cab.

They followed Jim’s car to an old school building, big and tatty and deathly quiet. She recognised it with a shock that made her feel sick for a second before turning to something warmer, something nostalgic. Jim disappeared inside with a group of men and Molly waited for a moment, torn. Did she really want to know what Jim was doing in there, of all places? Then Sherlock got out of a cab and her heart stopped.

By the time Molly had crossed the road and found her way into the pool building, she could hear voices. Sherlock and his friend, that John fellow, by the sounds of it. She had a cold achy feeling in her stomach as she hovered outside the doors. Someone was going to get hurt.

“I gave you my number. I thought you might call!”

She almost bit through her lip. Of course. Sherlock was in Jim’s way. The whole of Europe wasn’t big enough for the two of them, let alone London. And here she stood outside the final showdown, literally on the threshold. Choosing time.

Molly swung the door open and took a small, quiet step into the room. Yet all three men noticed her instantly, and she wasn’t surprised.

“Molly? What are you doing here?” Sherlock frowned with a mixture of confusion and mild annoyance.

Jim gave her almost the same look. “Indeed. This was a private party.”

“Are you going to kill them?” Molly ignored them, staring Jim down.

“Maybe. Depends on how bored I feel,” Jim shrugged, “Does it bother you, Moll? Come to beg me to reconsider? Come to rescue the great Sherlock Holmes? It’s disappointing you want to spend your life in the background.”

“No. I wanted to know where you were going. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He raised a brow. “I thought you weren’t interested in my work.”

Sherlock took a step towards her. “Molly, what’s going on?”

“Sherlock, I messed up my introductions earlier. Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s brilliant at thinking and crap with people, and even though he knows how clever you are he’s still underestimating you.”

“Most people do.” Jim sighed heavily.

“Sherlock, this is Jim. When we were twelve I broke my arm and he carried me all the way home. When we were fourteen he set fire to a house and I hid the kerosene. When we were sixteen we ran away for a month and lived off pick-pocketing, crisps and cheap wine.”

John looked incredulous and Sherlock’s eyes grew wider as he pieced it together, but Jim just watched her steadily, unreadable.

“When we were twenty my dad died and I got scared. I went home. I tried to hide. And that was a huge fucking mistake.”

She walked past Sherlock, past John, to where Jim was waiting with the slightest smirk.

“Because I could never really hide from Jim, and I could certainly never hide from myself.”

“And you shouldn’t have to, my own.” He purred.

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock said flatly.

“Of course you don’t, Sherlock. You’ve never understood me. And that’s okay.” Molly smiled sadly.

“You’re a good person. Moriarty is clearly not. What possible sentiment could exist between you?”

She shrugged. “Maybe I’m not the girl you think.”

“Molly my love, as much as I am enjoying this unmasking of Sherlock’s greatest flaw, I was in the middle of some very nice threats.”

John glanced at her. “You have to be joking. He’s insane! He killed twelve people!”

Jim chuckled. “Twelve? You underestimate me Dr Watson. I’m not the big fish - I’m the whole fucking pond.”

“Molly.” Sherlock breathed it, halfway between a prayer and a plea, something like a revelation.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. This is between the two of you. And I like you, really, but I’m leaving with Jim no matter what happens,” she turned to the grinning madman and gently rested her hand on his elbow, “Though Jimmy, if you’re not going to kill him can we hurry this along? I’m bored of Sherlock Holmes.”

She gripped him ever so subtly and his lip curled back. “In that case, let’s get it over with.”

He snapped his fingers and a dozen red lights went out.

“Sorry boys, we’ll finish this some other day. The lady’s made me a much more entertaining offer.”

He offered Molly his arm and she took it, following him to the door at the far side of the pool. They were almost all the way there before she glanced back.

 

The door slammed shut behind them and John immediately let out a huge breath. Sherlock hurried over to help him take the vest off, flinging it away.

“What the hell was that? Was that really Molly? Sweet, lovestruck Molly?”

“Yes.” The detective said quietly, still staring at the door.

“All this time she was Moriarty’s old flame?”

“I suppose.”

“And she was going to just stand there and watch him kill us.”

“I very much doubt it. She saved our lives.”

John’s face crinkled. “Come again?”

“I didn’t expect a man as calculating as Jim Moriarty would respond to the mere offer of sex, but obviously Miss Hooper was right. I greatly overlooked them both. I won’t make that mistake again.”

*****

Jim moved them both into a posh new flat the next day. Everything was sharp and stylised and it reminded Molly of the morgue in more ways than one. It was a comforting thought.

The only thing Jim didn’t move was Toby, since the kitten was out prowling at the time. Molly cursed the little fluff ball as she made her way up the dark stairs to her old place. She’d much rather be exploring her new office or testing out the enormous king-sized bed. She opened the door and reached for the light before remembering Jim had already disconnected it.

“You know, sometimes he’s a little too efficient,” She sighed, “Toby? Toby!”

A torch flicked on and she almost shrieked. Sherlock sat cross-legged in the middle of the empty room where her couch used to be. She vaguely wondered where it was now – it hadn’t made the trip to the new place with the rest of her stuff. Not part of Jim’s décor, apparently.

“Hello, Molly.”

“What are you doing here, Sherlock?” Her voice was calm, her hand already inching towards the gun in her waistband.

The detective’s face was all crags and shadows in the dim torchlight. “I must admit you piqued my curiosity last night. I have a few questions.”

“Well I don’t think I should be talking to you. We’re not really on the same side anymore, Sherlock.”

“Moriarty was going to kill us and you stopped him. Our side might not be so different, Molly.”

She shrugged. “I stopped him this time. I am fond of you, Sherlock, but I can’t do it again.”

He nodded as if he expected nothing less. “Still, thank you all the same.”

A week ago she would have been shocked at gratitude from the great Sherlock Holmes but now she just smiled. “I hope I didn’t upset Dr Watson too much.”

“He’ll live.” Sherlock reached into his lap and held up a small black and white puff.

“Toby! There you are, naughty little thing.” Molly took him, bundling the kitten in her arms.

“Be careful, Molly Hooper. Moriarty is not a man to be trusted.”

She just smiled. “There’s an exception to every rule, Sherlock.”

*****

“More tea?”

“Thank you.”

Jim poured a cup for them both and pushed Molly’s across the table. He glanced at the office tower opposite their hotel and resettled his sunglasses on his nose. “Have I mentioned you’re looking very Audrey Hepburn today?”

Molly lowered her own huge white circular frames and wriggled her brows. “When in Paris.”

Jim bit his lip. “Hmm. I might have to cut this short and take you inside to be ravished.”

“Business before pleasure, dearest.” Molly sang.

“Very well.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a small remote. Jim pressed the button and there was a massive roar and screech of glass as one of the windows below them burst outwards in a cloud of orange and grey. The smoke drifted up past their balcony as sirens started far away and got steadily closer.

“Satisfied?” Jim pouted.

“Not yet, but it’s a start.”

His smile grew wolf-like as the Irishman stood and offered his hand. “Shall we?”

 

“Here – explosion at the head office of France’s largest bank.” Sherlock pointed to the laptop screen.

John peered over his shoulder. “Says it killed a minor securities investor. Why would anyone bother to blow up a bank for someone so insignificant?”

“No one is insignificant John, no one.” Sherlock frowned as he skimmed the rest of the article.

John straightened up with a pained face. “This is about her again.”

“She was probably involved.”

“When are you going to stop beating yourself up about this? Sherlock, Molly fooled everyone. You can’t obsess. Mycroft and Lestrade never picked it either.”

Something flitted across Sherlock’s face that was almost like guilt, but John didn’t get much of a look before his features settled into their usual cynicism. “I am not Mycroft or Lestrade. The facts were right there, I just never bothered to look.”

“Now who’s seeing but not observing.” John muttered as he went back to his chair.

Sherlock grabbed a much-leafed through file from the desk and turned to the first page. “Molly Hooper, born in Cork. Moved to Brighton with her parents at age ten.”

“Yes Sherlock, you’ve read it before-”

“Went to school with one Carl Powers.” Sherlock continued.

“And Moriarty.”

“Yes Moriarty, though he wasn’t called that then. Someone’s done a good job hiding them both because even with what I know about Molly I can’t find a single thing on Jim, and according to the one classmate I could find who _would_ talk to me, the pair were inseparable!”

“Okay! So we’re not much better off. Worse really, since now Molly’s working with him and she knows your methods. What can we do about it?”

Sherlock strode over to the window angrily and rested his fist on the glass. “Nothing. Yet.”


	2. Chapter 2

Molly stretched, yawning loudly. She glanced at her clock with a start. How was it already eleven? She went into the main room to find Jim curled up on the couch with a copy of _Ulysses_.

“There you are. Busy plotting, my love?”

“Why didn’t you come get me? I thought we were going to have dinner.”

“You seemed so focused I didn’t want to interrupt. Sit.” Jim patted the couch as he put his book down.

She collapsed onto the cushion and curled up against him. Jim wrapped his arm around her shoulders and stroked lightly.

“So, have you heard from Sherlock?”

“No.”

“Strange, since he’s been making lots of enquiries.” Jim mused.

“What kind of enquiries?”

“He’s been following us.”

“Following?”

“Not the actual us, just a couple of my decoys. But he’s getting closer, Moll.” Jim regarded her speculatively.

Molly looked up at him. “What are you going to do?”

“I think you mean _we_. And the question is, what do _we_ want to do?”

Molly met his gaze evenly. “He can’t be allowed to interfere.”

“But you don’t want me to kill him either.”

“I guess not. He has his good moments.”

“Then perhaps we should have a conversation with Mr Holmes.” Jim suggested.

Molly laughed. “What on earth could we say to discourage a genius who needs a constant challenge? Sorry Sherlock, we’re going to have to ask you to find something more interesting than a criminal mastermind and the girl who used to work with you in the lab?”

“It does seem rather hopeless.”

Molly reached out and took his hand. “Thank you though, for not insisting we get rid of him.”

“Molly, what makes you think I don’t feel the same as Sherlock?”

*****

The brunette was staring at the fire from his armchair when his phone rang.

“Sherlock? It’s for you.” John looked up from filling the kettle.

“Nobody important rings me. Everybody knows to text.”

“Mycroft rings.”

“Exactly – nobody important.”

The phone kept ringing and John stepped closer to where it sat on the kitchen table. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“Too far away.”

“Sherlock, it might be important!”

His flatmate looked at him scornfully. “Then why don’t you answer it?”

John watched him for a moment but Sherlock made no move to get out of his chair. He grabbed the phone with an exasperated sigh. “John Watson speaking. Uh huh. Yep. Sherlock?”

“Not interested.”

“Oh right then, I’ll just tell Molly to try again later.”

 Sherlock was out of his seat faster than John had ever seen him move, snatching the phone away. “Molly?”

“Sherlock. I’ve missed those dramatic tones.”

“Where are you?”

“That’s not the reason I called.”

“Why did you?”

“You’ve been hounding after us a lot lately. I hope you haven’t been neglecting your other cases.”

“There are no other cases.”

“Hmm. Well, even though he’s certain you can investigate forever and never get anywhere, Jim thought maybe we should meet. Talk face to face. You can ask your questions and we can come to some kind of understanding.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because, Sherlock. If you poke around too much, Jim will lose his temper and kill you.”

She said it so certainly he barely recognised her voice.

“And you won’t stop him.”

“No, I won’t. But I’d like to avoid it. You’re a nice guy sometimes. So will you come?”

“Absolutely.”

“Great. I’ll send you the details. I really do miss you, Sherlock.”

She hung up and Sherlock slowly lowered the phone. A minute later it beeped as he received her text.

“What was all that about?” John asked.

“Molly and Moriarty want to meet me. Apparently they’re sick of my snooping.”

The ex-soldier gave a half-laugh. “Right. So you’re not going, yeah? Since it’s obviously a trap?”

“I told her yes.”

“Sherlock! You can’t just walk into Moriarty’s hands like that!”

“Actually I can.” Sherlock settled back into his chair.

“At least let me go with you, if you’re going to be this stubborn. Or call Lestrade or Mycroft and have them send backup.”

“I really don’t think you should come, since you’re obviously overwrought about the whole thing.”

John just stared, speechless, his words coming as little gasps. “You tried to meet Moriarty once before and I almost got blown up!”

“I have to see them, John. I have to know.”

“Know what? What is so important about Molly and that psychopath?”

“Because I need to know if he loves her!” Sherlock thundered.

John stepped back, frowning. “Why do you care?”

“Never mind. There’s no point explaining.” Sherlock stood and brushed past into his room, slamming the door.

 

He had to ditch three of Mycroft’s tails before he even got near the restaurant. John had clearly gone behind his back, and while another man might have appreciated the concern it just annoyed Sherlock. He slipped into the lane behind a row of shops and restaurants and came upon a small fat maître d’ smoking against the brick wall.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“This way please.”

The man stubbed out his cigarette and led Sherlock through a store room into the kitchen. Instead of heading towards the front he turned and pointed to a slim set of spiral stairs.

“Private room. I’ll be up to take your order in a moment.”

Sherlock climbed the stairs cautiously, eyes glancing over the kitchen as he went but everything seemed normal. The top opened up into a small but comfortable room with a table surrounded by three chairs and a built-in alcove. The furnishings were luxurious and the only light dim wall sconces, a room arranged for secret meetings judging by the stains on the seat cushions. Jim sat on one side of the alcove in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up and grey pants, his red tie shocking in contrast. Molly sat very close to him in a stunning red dress, her lipstick matching in a subtle but flattering way, her arms wrapped around Jim. She beamed.

“Sherlock!”

“Molly.” He stood by the stairs stiffly.

“We weren’t sure you’d make it.” Jim smiled teasingly.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from Molly’s hands on the consulting criminal’s waist. “How could I say no?”

“Please, sit. We’ve opened a wonderful bottle of Château Latour, if you like red.” Jim waved to the empty seat next to him.

Sherlock ignored it, sitting closer to Molly. “I don’t drink.”

“Of course, the recovering addict. Alcohol was never your problem though.”

“I prefer to stay sharp, especially with the present company.”

Jim gave him a look of mock innocence.

“Menu?” he offered.

“Thank you.”

“The gnocchi is to _die_ for.”

 “You haven’t been looking after yourself again.” Molly tutted as she reached out to pat the dark circles under Sherlock’s eyes.

He shrugged dismissively. “That’s nothing new.”

 

The maître d’ took their orders and left the trio in silence. Sherlock sat back in his chair watching Jim play with his wine glass as Molly rested her hand on his knee. The criminal had a twinkle in his eyes.

“Alright, Sherlock. Start asking questions before you burst from the sheer weight of them all.”

“And you’ll answer honestly?”

“Of course. But I can’t promise to answer every question, and I can’t say you’ll leave here satisfied.”

Sherlock considered it for a moment before starting. “What’s your name?”

“James.” Moriarty smirked.

“And the rest?”

“Moriarty.”

“Really?”

“It’s who I am now. That’s as real as it gets, Sherly.”

“When did you meet Molly?”

The brunette giggled. “First day of school. He was wearing the most ridiculous jacket – bright green with Mickey Mouse heads.”

“And you were teenage sweethearts?”

“Sherly! Be a bit more imaginative!” Jim scoffed, “We were never ‘sweethearts’. Molly and I had something destructively passionate. Feral. We were the whole world and nobody else counted.”

Sherlock was slightly unsettled by the intensity of Jim’s smile, but he kept his face blank. “Until Molly realised who you really were and left? Quite sensibly.”

Molly frowned. “I always knew, Sherlock. It didn’t – it doesn’t – matter to me. I love Jim exactly as he is.”

“And he loves you? Molly, the man’s a maniac and a master manipulator. He’s incapable of love and more than able to make you think otherwise.” Sherlock said skeptically.

Jim sighed. “Boring. Here I thought we were having a conversation.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock. You just haven’t delved deep enough. You don’t really know Jim, or me. But we know each other.” Molly smiled.

Sherlock frowned. “Why are you telling me this at all? It shows you have a weakness.”

“Because,” Jim looked up at him from under dark lashes, “Even the uncaring Sherlock Holmes should see there’s no weakness in this.”

 

Dinner was probably as good as Moriarty promised but Sherlock didn’t eat it. Instead he maintained a constant barrage of questions, trying to build the fullest picture he could of little Jim and Molly raising hell until they grew into more formidable foes. The information was mostly meaningless – after all, if he’d wanted to use Molly to get to Jim he didn’t need to know which dress she wore on their first date. But he couldn’t stop himself asking, scrounging for more and more, trying to understand the looks they gave each other through pure data. With every answer he just became more confused.

“I don’t understand, Molly. How does a girl with a normal upbringing and seemingly stable personality become enamoured with such a morally bankrupt individual?”

“Listen to the pot calling the kettle black.” Jim scoffed.

“You’re still not looking deep enough, Sherlock.” Molly just shook her head.

There was something about her she’d never had before, some quality he’d missed all those times at St Bart’s. She was enticingly unfathomable as she watched him, her eyes open and yet revealing nothing he wanted to know.

“I had no idea who you are.” He said, awed.

“Well now you do.”

“Isn’t she just the cleverest thing?” Jim cooed.

 “Yes.”

 

Sherlock skipped dessert and went home, half expecting to get jumped on the way. But Jim kept his word and no one bothered Sherlock as he trudged through the streets and up the dark stairs of 221B lost in thought. He scanned through everything he’d seen, everything he’d heard, and he could only come up with one logical explanation – it was real. It was all real: how Jim and Molly felt about each other was actual love. It wasn’t clichéd chocolate hearts and flowers love but that type seemed dull and predictable anyway. What Jim and Molly had was consuming, entrancing. Sherlock had felt affected by it just being near them. As he slunk down in his comfy chair, barely noticing John’s absence, Sherlock was struck by a true and new realisation. If even Jim Moriarty could love, then what the hell was wrong with him?

*****

John answered the door with a resigned face. “Mycroft.”

“I got your message. It seemed urgent.”

“It is, thanks for coming.”

He shut the door behind the official as Mycroft hung his umbrella on the hook. “I take it Sherlock doesn’t know?”

“Course not. I haven’t spoken to him in almost a fortnight.”

“Not unusual, for Sherlock.”

John looked at him uneasily. “It is this time.”

He led the older Holmes upstairs and into the living room – or into the doorway at least. Even Mycroft had to gape at the red web of string criss-crossing the room.

“What in God’s name is he doing?”

John pointed to one of the many photos surrounded by outgoing threads. “He’s plotting out Moriarty and Molly.”

“Their operation?” Mycroft tried to get a closer look.

“No - them. Their...relationship or whatever it is. Their history. He came back from that bloody dinner more obsessed than I have ever seen him.”

“Sherlock Holmes is trying to untangle an emotional attachment?” Mycroft’s frown was very deep now, “Where is he?”

 

The already slender detective looked thinner than ever. He was lying on his bed in nothing but the sheet, staring at the ceiling with his fingers pressed together over his mouth. Sherlock didn’t even look when Mycroft entered.

“That’s a complex arrangement you’ve got in the other room.”

“It refuses to be simplified.” Sherlock said with a faint hint of frustration.

“The doctor’s rather worried about you. Is his concern merited?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you’re not rapidly becoming manically obsessed with James Moriarty and Molly Hooper?”

This earned him a glare. “Is it unreasonable to be fixated on a particularly fascinating pair of opponents?”

“But it is not the game you’re interested in.”

There was a long moment where Sherlock just stared at the ceiling.

“Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

“Many things, I am sure.”

“Jim Moriarty has a heart, under all his bluff and insanity.”

“Do you really aspire to be more like him?”

“Don’t be stupid. I just thought if even he could love someone, then why couldn’t I?”

Mycroft sighed. “Have you ever tried to love someone, Sherlock? Other than Mummy or yourself? It’s difficult. It can be painful.”

“So you think I’m better off this way?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. But it’s better than chasing your current rabbit down the hole.”

He was almost out the door when Sherlock spoke again. “She seemed so ordinary.”

“People surprise you sometimes.”

“No one ever surprises me.”

*****

Molly still read John’s blog. It wasn’t to gather information, since everything posted was long over – it just made her feel connected to her old life in some small way. She missed it sometimes, being average, blending into the crowd. She scrolled through the latest entry to the bottom. Things with Sherlock seemed to be a bit weirder than usual. Even Jim had commented the detective had backed right off and he wasn’t sure why.

_If anyone wants to get in contact about Sherlock’s condition, all they have to do is ask._

There was the expected stuff, concerned readers wishing Holmes well. A few jokers who posted not very nice offers to cheer the detective up themselves. Molly took a deep breath, typed quickly, and hit send before she could change her mind.

 _I’d like to help. I’ll call tomorrow_.

 

Molly let herself in. John was at the clinic but there was no sign of his flatmate in the kitchen or lounge. “Sherlock?”

She tentatively opened his bedroom door. She’d never seen it before, but it seemed fitting with the barely lived-in feel and the dark colours. Sherlock was half-sitting on the bed, arms behind him as he stared. “Molly? What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, silly. I heard you weren’t yourself.”

“Yes. I mean, no, I guess I’m not.”

He was still watching her intensely and Molly frowned, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re still not taking care of yourself.”

“Nobody seems to find that odd except you.”

“Are you alright, Sherlock? Really? I mean, you seemed fine at dinner and now...”

He was studying her face intently, searching for something but she had no idea what. “Why do you love Jim?”

“Because he’s smart and passionate and good to me.” She said matter-of-factly.

“And why did you love me?”

She noticed his use of the past tense but took a little longer to think of her answer. “Well you weren’t really good to me, and your passion was only for your work, but the same sort of reasons I guess. I’m attracted to men with a secret sensitive side I suppose. Amazing, extraordinary men.”

Sherlock shook his head. “How could I have been so blind to this for so long?”

“I was trying very hard to _not_ be this.” Molly said.

“No, this feeling. I remember it from before but it’s been so long and so much has happened I’d deleted it.”

“What feeling, Sherlock?” Molly frowned.

“Loneliness.”

She raised her brows. “You’re not alone. You have Mrs Hudson, and Mycroft, and John.”

“I have always been alone. Mycroft is the nearest thing I had to an equal and he was older, out of the house a lot. When I saw the first signs of Jim’s intellect and reach I felt alive for once, finally facing a worthy adversary, being pushed. And now I find his other half is just as smart, just as adept at hiding in plain sight.”

He stretched out a hand and tucked her hair behind one ear. Molly shuffled away slightly. “Sherlock....I’m-”

“His. Yes. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s trite.”

“Sherlock, you can’t honestly think after all this time you’re suddenly in love with me?” she gawked.

“Why not? I have been led to believe it happens all the time between friends.”

“Except we weren’t really friends. You never bothered to learn a thing about me.”

“I want you, Molly. You’re not like other girls.”

She stood, backing away. “I should go.”

“What’s wrong? You don’t want me anymore?” Sherlock looked honestly puzzled.

“That’s not how love works, Sherlock. I’m fond of you, and once I might have been hopeless head over heels for you, but I’ve always been Jim’s. I’m not going to leave him again.”

“Please, Molly. I need you.”

His face was so lost, so childish her heart almost broke. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t believe that.”

She ran downstairs as fast as she could and into the first cab she saw.

 

Molly stormed into the apartment and dropped her bag on the counter, untwisting her scarf angrily.

“Bad day?” Jim raised a brow.

“I went to see Sherlock.”

“I know.”

“Clever you. Do you also know he thinks he’s in love with me?”

Jim chuckled. “Really? Poor dear.”

Molly gaped at him angrily. “No, not poor anything! It’s typical Sherlock, messing me around and overlooking me until he wants something.”

“Don’t fret, darling. He’ll get over it as soon as some new case comes along. Maybe I should arrange one.”

She sat next to him with a huff. “But...maybe he shouldn’t get over it. I mean, this is Sherlock. He’s never loved anyone before. Maybe this is a good sign.”

“So I should  share you with him to further his emotional growth? Unlikely.” Jim growled.

“Of course not. But we should do something to help him.”

The Irishman looked thoughtful for a moment before grinning wickedly. “I have the perfect solution. Pass me my phone, precious.”

*****

Sherlock was pouting, still in his sheet, still refusing to leave the flat. The bell rang but he ignored it. He could hear Mrs Hudson tottering around downstairs and then a soft, female voice.

“John!” he called, unwilling to get up off the couch and deal with a client.

There was no answer, and Sherlock wondered if he’d missed John going out again. The footsteps were on the stair now. He was going to have to talk to _people_.

“Whoever you are, I am not consulting at present.”

“Oh? I was assured you’d take my case.”

He glanced up at the woman and froze. She was smirking at him with perfectly painted crimson lips, as stark against her skin as her black hair. Her navy dress was the epitome of elegance and she had a large fur coat over one arm.

“Then you were misinformed, madam.”

She sat in the chair opposite him. “It’s Irene. Irene Adler.”

He raised a brow. “And from your tone and the way you’re playing with that ring I gather I’m supposed to be impressed?”

“You really don’t know me? That’s refreshing.” She laughed.

“Should I?”

“Perhaps,” Irene grinned, “I’m worth knowing.”

Sherlock took another look and found that beyond the obvious (her shoe size, that her clothes were expertly tailored and very expensive, that her hair colour was probably natural and she wasn’t wearing perfume) he couldn’t get a single thing. He looked again, harder, and still came up blank.

Sherlock mulled this over for a moment before sitting up straighter. “Who said I’d take your case?”

“Someone who knows what I like.”

Sherlock scowled. “I’m not taking on any new cases.”

“Oh no, obviously,” she leaned forward, “But maybe once the moping about starts to bore you, you could give me a call?”

She reached into her dress and pulled out a small white card marked only with ‘The Woman’ and a phone number. Sherlock eyed it warily.

“It won’t bite.”

He took the card reluctantly and turned it over in his fingers. Irene watched him for a moment before standing.

“Well. It’s been a pleasure, Mr Holmes.”

She was halfway to the stairs when he cleared his throat. “You might as well tell me now. So I don’t waste time calling you later.”

Irene smiled and dropped her coat over the arm of the couch. “Where should I begin?” 


	3. Chapter 3

Jim smiled as he presented his ticket to the chubby Hestia at the door.

“Hey, you work in I.T, right?”

“Yeah. You’re one of the admin girls?”

“Not tonight.” She winked.

Jim rolled his eyes internally, but on the outside he just winked back.

“So you’re on table...six. It’s to your right as you go in, third table down.”

“Thanks.”

The consulting criminal swept into the ballroom, no intention of going to his table. He stuck to the walls, circling slowly as he scanned the crowd for Sherlock. Jim didn’t really expect him to make an appearance, but you could never tell with Mr Holmes. If Dr Watson had his say, he might have forced him to come out and be sociable.

The room was your typical tacky themed ball, a hospital banner over the stage and middle-aged nurses fumbling around on the dance floor in togas. He noticed more than one Asclepius as several doctors had predictably imagined themselves as gods of healing. Worse were the Zeuses. _They already have god complexes anyway. This fundraiser is just an excuse to have it acknowledged_. Normally he wouldn’t come to something so dull and pathetic, but nobody at St Bart’s had taken him off the invite list and the opportunity was just too good to waste. Jim’s eyes flicked over the tables until he found John sitting in a back corner by the stage. He was in a gold tunic and had a plastic bow and arrows on the table beside him. _Aw, Apollo. How cute_. Stamford was next to him in Dionysian purple and leopard skin, fully living up to his character by the red state of his cheeks. _But no Sherlock. Pity_.

He was halfway across the room when a group of women parted and he saw her. She was straining to see over everyone else as she searched for something. Jim raised a brow. Molly wore a long, sweeping black dress that was somehow still ethereal despite its colour, insubstantial like smoke. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and crowned with black orchids around her ears. The dark colours drained the pink from her skin and emphasised her dark red lips, making her look like one of the corpses on her table. She hadn’t spotted him yet but as the song changed to something slower, she saw John and Stamford. She headed for their table and Jim stepped into her path.

 

Molly almost laughed when she got the invitation. No one at St Bart’s had taken her off the list – but then why would they? They didn’t know what she did with her days. She hadn’t said anything to Jim, figuring it wasn’t his scene, but she decided to go and see John and Sherlock since they’d probably be there. It would be nice to catch up.

As she sighted John and stepped forward, a man in a majestic black tunic and cloak blocked her way. He had a thin silver crown and silver cuffs, a dagger strapped to his side. She looked up, about to apologise, and froze.

“Hello, Persephone.” Jim purred.

“Jim? What are you doing here?”

“I was invited.”

“What? Oh, the admin staff are really behind in the times.”

“Dance with me?”

Molly took his hand with a smile. Jim led her onto the floor where several other couples were swaying to an old love song and pulled her into his arms.

“I love your outfit. Goddess of death, very fitting.”

“And you’re King of the Underworld. Not much of a costume.”

Jim laughed. “I suppose not. Though I’ve been getting some strange looks - you’d think people used to death wouldn’t be so offended to see me outside office hours.”

“They like to pretend it doesn’t exist. It makes it easier for the doctors to do their jobs if they aren’t thinking about failing.”

“A stupid concept. If you don’t acknowledge death, how can you cheat it?”

She pouted up at him. “Nobody cheats death. I should know.”

“It’s your best quality. And it looks good on you.” He nodded towards her outfit.

“Thank you. Sherlock’s not here.”

“I know. Shame, I was hoping to see him.”

“ _You_ were?” she pulled back to look at him, “Why?”

“To see how he’s getting on with Irene, of course.”

“You could ask Irene if you wanted to know that.”

“Ah but it’s so much more fun making Sherly blush.”

Jim delighted in the bemused look she gave him. He pulled her closer, hand sliding down to the small of her back.

 

John glanced at his watch. “Thought Sherlock would be here by now.”

“Is he coming?” Mike poured himself another glass.

“Should be. Said something to that effect. I’ve got to go to the loo anyway, so I’ll have a look.”

He stood and started making his way around the room. John had never felt more ridiculous, his gold tunic and leather skirt both uncomfortable and silly, but it was for the hospital after all. He ducked around a table by the toilets and swept his eyes over the space by the door. Pretty much all the guests were at their tables, a few dancing to the cheesy music. He couldn’t see Sherlock. Then one of the men dancing looked up and John felt like he couldn’t breathe. _Moriarty_. He wasn’t sure the genius had seen him, too busy talking to the woman he was with. Normally the image of Jim dancing would have thrown John but he was too shocked to think of anything but calling Lestrade and Sherlock, not necessarily in that order. _Bastard should have come with me_. His bladder forgotten, John was pulling out his phone when the couple spun and he caught a glimpse of wide, cheerful eyes. _Oh Jesus, Molly_. He looked at his phone wistfully but he knew he couldn’t interfere – Sherlock had made that abundantly clear. He headed for the table, hoping Jim and Molly weren’t here to cause trouble.

 

The detective sighed as he took in the room. This was one of the most uncharacteristic things he’d ever done, and he couldn’t quite believe it had come to this – and for a woman. He scanned the room quickly but couldn’t see her. He located John and Stamford and caught the doctor’s eye. John bobbed his head towards the dance floor and Sherlock frowned, following the movement. His gaze landed on Jim and Molly. _Oh course they’d be here when I look this stupid_. He sighed and headed over, tapping Jim on the shoulder.

He spun. “Sherlock! Nice skirt. Who are you supposed to be?”

Sherlock tugged at the pristine white drapery. “Nomos, spirit of the law.”

“How cute.”

“Hades and Persephone,” Sherlock nodded, “King and Queen of the Underworld. Should I call that cute too?”

“I am very like Hades, dear. We’re both rich and cunning, we both operate in the shadows. In the end all men must obey us, even extraordinary ones like you. And we both share a weakness for women who are more than they appear.”

“It’s good to see you, Sherlock.” Molly cut off the inevitable jibe.

“And you. I don’t suppose this is a social call?”

“It is, actually. Don’t worry Sherly, we’re not here to blow up the ball, just see some old friends.” Jim beamed.

“Well then. I’ll leave you to it.”

“We’ll talk later, yeah?” Molly asked.

“Alright.”

He headed for Watson and Stamford’s table and flopped into an empty chair.

“What are they doing here?” John demanded.

“Having fun like everyone else.”

“Their idea of fun is not usually the norm, Sherlock.”

“It will be fine, John. Why don’t you go harass a nymph or something?”

Mike chuckled and poured Sherlock a glass of red. “Sherl?”

“No thank you. I need my wits about me tonight.”

“You just said Molly and Moriarty weren’t dangerous.” John said accusingly.

“It’s not them I’m worried about.”

 

He’d been there maybe half an hour when she arrived. As usual she was the picture of understated majesty, her outfit elegant but eye-catching. She was memorable without being too obvious and it was one of the things Sherlock liked most about her. The dress was peacock blue and slit to the thigh on one side, her head topped with a golden crown.

“Dr Watson, Mr Holmes.”

“Miss Adler,” John looked surprised, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh? Sherlock didn’t tell you I was coming? Strange.” She smirked at the detective.

“Hera. It suits you.”

“Thank you, Sherlock. May I sit?”

“Be my guest.”

She fell into her seat prettily and John threw Sherlock a curious glance. “So, uh, is there something new on the case?”

“Oh no, that’s all settled. Sherlock had it tidied up for me in about a day.”

John looked puzzled. “So you’re here...”

“Shall we dance?” Sherlock stood, offering his hand.

“I’d love to.”

John watched them walk onto the floor together and frowned. “Is Sherlock Holmes on a date?”

Stamford chuckled. “Apparently. She’s a good-looking bird.”

“Has the world gone completely mad? Sherlock’s here with a date, Jim and Molly stopped by to say hi...Stamford, sometimes I worry I’ve woken up in some alternate reality where everyone’s insane but me.”

“Cheer up and have another drink, you old fogey.”

 

Jim soon tired of the boring conversation Molly was having with their tablemates. He kept glancing over to where Sherlock and Irene were deep in conversation, arms around each other as they swayed. _Well, that settles that question_. He pouted and turned to Molly. She was looking particularly edible in that dark, mysterious dress. Jim got an idea.

“Persephone, would you like to take a walk?”

“I suppose. It’s a nice night.”

He took her hand and led her out through the back door into the garden that wrapped around the hotel. It was made up mostly of green-lined pathways, but in one corner by the kitchen door there was a thick, shaded clearing. Jim wandered in a circle around the grass to check they were alone. “Do you want to play a game, Sephy?”

“Are we over the party already?” she raised a brow, “I suppose it was a bit dull. What sort of game did you have in mind?”

He stepped closer, curling his fingers around her crossed arms and tugging her forward.

“What could I possibly want from my Persephone?” he cooed, nose touching her hair.

Molly whimpered as he dug his fingers in. “Please, Jim.”

“Uh uh uh...”

“Please...Lord Hades.”

Jim smirked, walking her back against a tree in a rush. One hand grasped at her thigh through the slinky material while the other held her face still, his grip hard and bruising. “You know how the story goes, don’t you?”

He kissed her throat, gnawing and nipping and rough. Molly reached behind her with one hand for balance. Her other clung to his hip, landing on the hilt of his dagger. She drew it with a slither of steel, pressing the tip lightly against Jim’s neck. He stopped instantly.

“Well played, goddess.” He carefully lifted his hands clear of her body, straightening up.

Molly was panting but her hand was steady, following his movements closely with the blade. “Now what should I do with you? Seems you’re at my mercy now.”

Jim watched her for a moment, licking his lips. His hand shot out and wrapped around hers, holding the knife in place between them as he leaned in and kissed her. It was only for a second, fast enough she couldn’t really react, and then he pulled away. “Now that we’ve got that last defence of your virtue over with, shall we?”

 

Irene curled her fingers along Sherlock’s neck. “You seem stiff, Mr Holmes.”

“I do not enjoy costume parties.”

“Really? I thought you liked disguises.”

“A disguise serves a purpose, a costume is an excuse to act foolishly because you’re ‘not yourself’.” He rolled his eyes.

Irene smirked. “Does that mean you dressed up for me?”

“You said you wanted to have dinner. John was pestering me about the ball. Seemed like the only way to make it a bearable night.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel wanted.” Irene laughed.

He looked down. “I’m sorry. I am probably the worst date you’ve ever had.”

She crinkled her nose. “Not by a long shot.”

She laid her head on his chest and he tightened his arms around her, moving in time to the terrible music. Sherlock was hyper-aware of Irene’s presence: her smell, her warmth, the way her dress felt against his skin. Her hair was just under his chin, ebony waves locked into place with pins. He’d never really wanted to be this close to another person before, never seen the point, but he had to admit dancing with Miss Adler was pleasant. She was charming and beautiful in an old-fashioned way, rather than the over-maintained look of most girls. She was confident and bold and blunt, and he found it refreshing to find a woman who spoke her mind but didn’t give away all her secrets at once.

“Irene, would it be out of line if I kissed you right now?”

She turned her face up to him, smiling wickedly. “Maybe. Why don’t you try it and see?”

Sherlock bent his head to press their lips together, letting his brain absorb the sensation before pulling away again.

“Was it as scary as you thought?”

“No.”

Irene bit her lip. “Would you like to do it again?”

 

Jim took the dagger from her and gathered her skirts in his hand.

“Sorry, Sephy, I’ll buy you a new one.”

He slit the fabric from waist to hem, pushing it aside until he could reach her legs. He cut off the sides of her underwear and ripped it away. Jim tossed the blade aside and attacked her mouth, hands running up her thighs as she clutched him closer. Molly gave a cry and bit his lip. He growled and ran his nose along her neck and collarbone, trailing up to her forehead.

“There’s no one coming to rescue you, my dark flower.”

“You’ll be sorry when my father hears about this!” she clawed at his chest, tugging the tunic neck down.

“Oh? Then let’s make it a good tale.”

He lowered a hand to lift up his shirt but she was already there, rolling it over his hips. She reached a hand into his underwear and stroked his swollen flesh.

“See what you do to me, Death-Bringer?” he whispered huskily.

She met his gaze with eyes that smouldered, intense and mesmerising. “Beast. Animal. Villain.”

He hissed and surged into her hand. Jim kissed her again, smashing his lips on her almost painfully. Molly resolutely kept her mouth closed for a moment before seemingly relenting, letting him force his way in. Her tongue curled around his eagerly as his hands roamed over her breasts, squeezing and pinching until she gasped.

“I will make you my queen, little Seph, and all you have to say is yes.”

“Never.”

She guided his member to her entrance and he thrust in quickly, drawing a muffled squeal. Jim groaned low in the back of his throat. “Persephone.”

“My king.”

He slid into her roughly, slamming her back against the trunk. Molly dug her nails into his hair and tugged, tilting her hips towards him. She raked at Jim’s back as her head hit the tree over and over, legs clenched around his waist, flowers dangling from her hair.

 

John emptied his glass and looked over to check on Sherlock. The detective was completely pressed against Irene, hands on her back as she gripped his shoulder. They were kissing, heads moving languorously as they stood on the spot, oblivious to the music.

John gawked. “Is that Sherlock? Kissing a girl?”

He turned to Stamford for confirmation but the portly doctor wasn’t in his seat, instead chatting up a bleached blonde Aphrodite at the next table.

“Is everyone getting some but me?” John shook his head in disbelief, “Right.”

He poured another small glass of wine and downed it, standing. He adjusted his belt and scanned the room, spotting a lonely Athena by the wall.

“Right. Come on, Three Continents John.”

 

Molly dragged Jim’s head forward for a kiss. “Oh gods, my lord, stop!”

He squeezed her arm until she shrieked. “Almost there, my own, almost mine.”

Molly panted, eyes fixed on Jim’s face as his brows wiggled and arched. He screwed his eyes shut and rested his face against her neck, breathing in the scent of her as she moaned in his ear. “No, no, please gods, oh, no!”

He was so close he could taste it sharp in his mouth, could feel her thighs twitching as Molly reached the edge. She gave another squeal and suddenly a light shone on them. A hotel employee with a flashlight stood at the edge of the clearing. “Hey! What are you doing?”

“Piss off!” Jim grunted.

“You okay?” their good Samaritan took a few steps closer.

Molly waved a hand. “Fine, thank you.”

“You sure?”

“Really.” she patted Jim’s arm, trying to calm his trembling before he snapped the man’s neck.

“Alright.”

He walked off, leaving them in darkness again. Jim could have howled with frustration. Molly just laughed. “I think I was a little too realistic.”

“At least there are still some good people in London.” Jim joked, smiling up at her.

“The moment is sort of ruined, huh?”

He ground his teeth. “Not on your life.”

He swung his pelvis again unexpectedly, making her gasp and dig her fingers into the tree bark.

“Oh Jim.” She whispered.

He nipped at her jaw and ear, trying to regain their lost pace. It took a few moments, but soon Molly was clenching around him and drawing him closer, biting his shoulder to keep from making more noise. Jim let go with a wordless curse, pressing her back against the trunk so she was crushed in his embrace. Molly squirmed and arched, rubbing herself against the motionless criminal. He shifted and she fell off the edge, quivering beneath him.

Jim caught his breath and pulled away, gently lowering her until her feet hit the grass.

“I’ve got some wicked scratches on my back.”

“Apologies,” Jim took off his cloak and handed it to her, helping Molly wrap it tight, “Shall we go back inside and find Sherly?”

“I think he’ll be fine without us.” She said breathily.

“I thought the whole idea was to catch up.”

“I’ll call him tomorrow. For now, I think we should continue discussing this myth – at home.”

He grinned and flourished a hand. “Your chariot awaits, my queen.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Forget it, Mycroft,” Sherlock huffed, lounging back in his chair, “Molly Hooper and I are not exactly friends. I can’t tell you anything your lackeys can’t find out for themselves.”

The older Holmes leaned on his umbrella with a tight, unpleasant smile. “The two of you were seen conversing at the St Bart’s ball without the slightest hint of violence or animosity, in the very presence of Jim Moriarty. You may not be friends in the conventional sense, but then how many ordinary relationships do you have, Sherlock?”

“I’ve got John,” he muttered, glancing at the doctor, “He’s perfectly ordinary.”

“Thanks.” The blond grimaced, opening his paper with a snap.

“And?” Mycroft arched a brow.

“Lestrade.”

“A man whose first name you remain unable to learn. Try again.”

Sherlock tapped a hand against his knee. “Mrs Hudson.”

“A surrogate mother you treat like a servant – not much of an example of close acquaintance, brother.”

He scowled, looking away. “Molly won’t tell me anything you might use to hurt Moriarty. She’s completely loyal to him. It’s a waste of my time.”

“I thought you were quite absorbed with the mystery of Dr Hooper,” the statesman pursed his lips, “Has she failed to hold your interest?”

“I have more pressing matters.”

“Such as?”

“He’s got a date.” John smirked, turning the page.

Mycroft’s lip curled, eyes bright with amusement. “Indeed? How perfectly normal. Perhaps I have misjudged you, Sherlock.”

The detective stood, buttoning his jacket. “If you want information about Moriarty, you’ll have to get it the usual ways. I can’t help you.”

He frowned. “It’s not like you to give up so easily. I hope your fondness for Dr Hooper has not blinded you to the fact she is aiding and abetting the most dangerous man in Europe.”

“Don’t worry, brother. If I see an opportunity to take Moriarty out of business, I’ll seize it; until then I prefer to keep my distance. It’s less…complicated.”

The other man studied him for a moment, John watching them over the top of his paper as the two Holmes stared each other down. Eventually Mycroft smiled.

“Enjoy dinner.” He swept out with his calm, measured steps.

John waited until the front door thudded shut before catching Sherlock’s eye. “He’s not going to stop asking.”

“Then I’ll keep giving him the same answer.” The brunette sniffed, picking up his scarf.

The doctor watched him loop it tight around his neck and slide his arms into his overcoat. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”

“I’ve reserved a table at Angelo’s. I expect we’ll spend some time discussing her clients, comparing victories, that sort of thing. Might take a walk after.”

 

“Do you know how weird this is?” John shook his head, “Me staying home on a Saturday night while you go out to not-eat with your dominatrix girlfriend?”

“I eat.” Sherlock protested.

“Only when you have to, and never when you’ve got a puzzle to think about – and Irene Adler is a puzzle. A walking, breathing, flirting puzzle.”

“Why else would I be interested in her?”

John folded his paper haphazardly, tossing it aside. “Oh I dunno, maybe because she’s an attractive woman and you’re a reasonably good-looking man? You’re even charming, when you’re not being a git. People like that might find themselves drawn together.”

“I don’t care about ‘people’, John. They’re boring.”

“Liar.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Most of them are, and even the clever ones usually turn out to be a disappointment once you take a closer look. Hardly worth my time.”

“And how is Irene keeping you from getting bored?” The doctor leaned forward with a crooked smile.

The brunette smiled back. “By remaining unattainable.”

“You mean she’s frigid? I didn’t expect you to care about that.”

“I mean she is a mystery.” Sherlock drawled.

John screwed up his face. “So what are you talking about on these dates then?”

“I told you,” he shrugged, “Our work. I try to deduce what I can about her from our exchanges, but she keeps her cards close to her chest. A useful defence mechanism, and an asset in her line of work.”

“You can’t be dating someone and know nothing about them.” The other man spluttered.

“Why not?” Sherlock frowned.

“You just…can’t! That’s not what dating is!”

“Then I suppose we’re not dating,” the detective sniffed, “Sounds awfully pedestrian anyway.”

“I don’t understand-”

“Hardly surprising.”

John continued louder. “What’s the point then? If you do manage to finally figure her out, are you just going to drop her?”

“Maybe she’ll prove elusive indefinitely,” Sherlock sighed, “Imagine, John – the never-ending chase. A lasting distraction. Doesn’t it sound peaceful?”

The blond stared at him. “No.”

“Oh. Well, I’m not getting my hopes up in any case.” He pulled on his gloves.

“You know, traditionally we call that sort of holding pattern a fear of commitment.”

“Are you an expert on settling down now, _Three Continents?_ ”

John blushed. “Who told you that story?”

“I am not a conventional man, John. It follows that any emotional attachments I form will also be unconventional. I don’t see that there’s anything wrong with it, if everyone’s satisfied with the situation.”

“I for one am not feeling particularly satisfied about the eyeballs currently marinating on our stove.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course you are - wouldn’t have it any other way. You can’t tolerate normality, John, however much you like to complain about my habits. Perhaps you’d benefit from following my example. Should I ask Irene if she has a friend for you?”

“I’m perfectly capable of finding my own dates, thank you.”

“Haven’t had much luck keeping them though,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “Maybe you’re the one who gets bored too easily.”

John opened his paper again, rustling the pages loudly to prove he didn’t care. “Well whatever you’re doing – or not - with Irene, have a good night.”

“Thanks. Don’t wait up.”

*****

Molly leaned forward as Jim gently kneaded the muscle above her collarbone. “Oh Jamie, that feels incredible.”

“You shouldn’t be so tense, my own. We’ll find someone to retrieve the diary.”

“I know,” she sighed, “But I still worry. I’m not like you – I don’t have an endless supply of brilliant back-up plans to draw on.”

“But you’ve got me.” He smiled, kissing the top of her head.

“And I don’t even have to pay for your help.” She teased.

“You can make it up to me in other ways.” He squeezed her shoulders, voice full of mischief.

She turned and shoved him playfully, holding back a laugh. “Don’t make it sound so…unsavoury.”

Jim grinned, cupping her face in one hand. “There’s nothing unsavoury about a clean, fair business transaction.”

“Is that what I am?” Molly murmured.

He pressed their foreheads together, her eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t ask silly questions, love.”

She smiled, enjoying the warmth of his skin on hers, and turned her face to kiss his palm. “What are you working on?”

Jim opened the manila file in his lap. “Reviewing some personnel options.”

“For what?”

“Couple of little jobs while Moran’s in Budapest. What do you think of this one?”

He handed her the file, resuming his massage as she read the first page. “Mary Morstan? What kind of assassin calls herself Mary?”

“A discreet one?” he countered, “She’s done some work for me in the past – indirectly, of course – but I’m thinking of making her a regular.”

“This is an impressive list of references,” Molly raised her brows as she skimmed the rest of the file, “She’s good.”

“Mmm,” Jim muttered, “A couple of months ago I offered her a job shadowing you but she wouldn’t accept a fulltime position – she prefers the freelance life.”

“Shadowing me?” she frowned, “Jim, I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“Of course you do, my own. You’re part of this organisation now.”

“But no one knows that...right?” her voice wavered.

Jim scowled. “Mycroft Holmes knows it, and that’s enough.”

Molly started to protest that Mycroft wouldn’t hurt her and stopped. “Okay.”

The genius smirked triumphantly. “It’s a shame about Miss Morstan, but we’ll find someone even better.”

She considered the photo again. “She’d make a good bodyguard – she looks like someone’s aunt. Reminds me of Dr Watson.”

 

Jim paused, papers spread around him, a huge smile creeping across his face. “Doesn’t she just?”

“What?” Molly glanced up.

“They’ve got a lot in common. Well-trained, intelligent, seemingly harmless with a thirst for danger. Floating about on the fringes of bad society. Single.”

She narrowed her gaze. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve just had the funniest idea, Moll. What if we set up Johnny and Miss Morstan? They’d be the very definition of a killer couple!”

“Why do you want to meddle with either of them? I thought you didn’t care about John.”

“But think of it, my own! The army medic and the assassin, snuggled up on a couch somewhere watching cheesy movies – isn’t it just so perfectly absurd?”

Molly’s brow furrowed. “And then what, you’ll swoop in and pull the rug out from under him? That’s awful, Jim. It could even be dangerous, for both of them.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.” He said innocently.

“Then I don’t understand,” she turned to face him, “What’s the game?”

“No game,” Jim shrugged, “I just thought it might be fun to try playing Cupid. I have romantic ideas sometimes, my sweet.”

“You’re really not interested in hurting John – or Mary.” Molly drawled skeptically.

“I’d never burn a contact that still has some use. Miss Morstan is a valuable asset; Dr Watson has worth as a result of his connection to Sherlock. I’m not harbouring any special ill will against either of them.”

“But if Mary and John start dating, you can’t keep giving her jobs anyway. He won’t tolerate that.”

The criminal gave her a disappointed look. “Molly my sweet, you don’t know the man at all.”

She stuck her lip out thoughtfully. “You’ve never been interested in matchmaking before.”

Jim laughed. “Isn’t that what I do, my own? I introduce people with needs to people with skills and resources. I facilitate successful partnerships all the time! You might even consider this little social experiment as overtime.”

“Okay,” Molly met his gaze squarely, “But no lying, Jim. If you set John up under false pretences and he finds out, he’ll never trust her again. He’ll think she’s spying for us.”

“He’s not going to fall for her if he knows what she does. Johnny likes the illusion of normality; his dull conscience won’t let him develop feelings for a killer.”

She shrugged. “There’s a difference between knowing she’s worked with you, and hearing every little detail. Just be upfront about your motives in pushing them together, and let them figure out the rest.”

Jim pursed his lips. “There are many words that describe me, darling, but ‘honest’ and ‘trustworthy’ are not among them. Dr Watson is never going to believe I’m working in his best interests.”

“Then I’ll talk to him. You just have to convince Mary that her newest target is worth pursuing.”

*****

“Hi, John.”

He looked up from his breakfast, mouth agape, cutlery frozen mid-slice. “Molly! What are you doing here?”

“Thought you might be in the neighbourhood,” she shrugged, “Mind if I join you?”

His jaw tightened. “That depends – is your boyfriend around? Any large, armed men? Snipers?”

Her smile didn’t budge. “Nope. It’s just me.”

He still looked suspicious, but waved his fork at the chair. “Please.”

Molly sat, taking off her gloves. A waitress came over. “Can I get you anything, love?”

“Just a coffee, thanks.”

“You’re not eating?” John asked as the woman went to make it.

“I’ve already had breakfast.”

“Early riser.” He said, more interested than he wanted to admit.

“Jim doesn’t sleep much – I guess it’s catching.”

John hummed unhappily, chewing his mouthful. Molly gave another smile, this one slightly forced.

“You must be wondering why I wanted to see you.”

He smiled grimly. “I have a feeling I’m about to find out.”

“Are you still um, are you…not seeing anyone?”

John’s mouth slowed. He set down his knife and fork, eyes boring into hers with an unpleasant smile. “Tired of Moriarty? I’m amazed you’ve lasted this long.”

Molly scowled. “Don’t be dull.”

The blond laughed. “You’re right, he really is rubbing off on you.”

“I came here as your friend – the least you can do is leave Jim out of it.”

John cleared his throat, folding his arms over his chest. “Fine. Yes, I’m single. What of it?”

“Would you be interested in meeting someone?”

He frowned. “What sort of someone?”

“Her name’s Mary. She used to work for the American government, and she’s really great. Pretty, about your age, clever-”

“Molly.”

“Yes?”

“How do you know her?”

The brunette looked down at her hands, pressing them against the table. “She works for Jim sometimes.”

“No!” John blurted, dropping his voice as people turned to look, “No, alright, absolutely not.”

 

Molly started to reply and stopped as the waitress brought her coffee, both of them sitting with awkward smiles as they waited for her to leave. Finally she moved out of earshot and the pathologist leaned forward.

“She’s not a psycho or anything – lots of people work for Jim, doing all sorts of things. I think you’d really like her.”

“Are you seriously trying to set me up with a, a counterfeiter, or a drug smuggler, or a kidnapper right now? What on Earth makes you think I’d say yes?”

“You live with Sherlock,” she arched a brow, “So clearly you don’t mind sociopaths. And you can’t exactly talk, John – you’ve killed people, and not just on the battlefield.”

“That was to save Sherlock.” He hissed.

“A bit of an overreaction, I think.”

John sat back, brow furrowed, lip thrust out like a scolded child. “What does she do then? Steal puppies? Rob banks?”

Molly didn’t answer right away, taking a good long sip of her drink as her eyes drifted towards the window. “Wetwork.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course. I’m sure you’re going to tell me they all deserve it though.”

“No. Even criminals have families, charitable impulses, moments of mercy. Nobody deserves to die, John, but everyone does. We both know that.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t make it okay to kill them.”

“Be honest,” she wrinkled her nose, “Every time you go out with Sherlock with that Browning tucked into your waistband, aren’t you a little bit excited about pulling the trigger?”

John pressed his lips together until the skin turned white. “I’m not afraid to defend myself or my friends, but I don’t enjoy it. Yes, I shot Jefferson Hope. I shot enemy soldiers. And I live with the consequences of my actions every day.”

“I can see the guilt’s really weighing you down.” Molly smiled.

The cheerful way she said it instantly sucked all the angry indignation out of John’s expression. In a scary way she reminded him of Moriarty (or, he hated to admit, Sherlock) – she was smirking at him with that earnest look that said she knew things he didn’t, things he’d rather not think about too much. He reminded himself who he was talking to, and kept his mouth shut.

The brunette took another big sip of her coffee, setting it back in the saucer with a careful clink. “John, you are a nice man. You help sick people, you help Sherlock catch criminals and protect the innocent, you fought for Queen and country. But you’re also a self-destructive adrenaline addict, a dangerous thrill seeker and a murderer.”

“Keep your voice down.” He muttered, glancing around.

“If it’s possible for you to be a good person who does bad things, don’t you think it’s possible Mary might be too?”

“You can’t possibly compare us. I would never work for someone like Moriarty.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Sherlock just found you first.”

She emptied her glass and stood, picking up her gloves.

“Sherlock has my number, if you change your mind.”

John gave a tight smile. “Great chat, Molly. We should do it more often.”

“Give Mrs Hudson my love.” She waved, walking out.

 

Sherlock was in his chair when John got back, waxing his violin strings. The blond stopped just inside the lounge room door, looking somewhere between shocked and puzzled.

“I’ve just seen Molly.”

“Really? Where?” the detective glanced at the window, as if she might still be on the sidewalk.

“She joined me for breakfast.”

“Why?”

He chuckled, rubbing a thumb across his forehead. “She wanted to set me up on a blind date.”

Sherlock clucked his tongue. “Oh, is that all? Boring.”

John tossed his keys on the coffee table, wandering over to lean against the desk. “With one of Moriarty’s hit men.”

“And did you give her that laughable line about not being gay?”

“Sherlock-” the doctor scowled, taking a breath to calm himself, “I am not gay. And it was a woman.”

“A female assassin,” the brunette raised his head with a speculative frown, “You don’t see many of those. What did you say?”

John smiled incredulously. “I said no, obviously. I’m not going to walk into another one of Jim’s traps.”

“What makes you think it’s a trap?”

“Because it’s Moriarty?”

Sherlock turned to look at him. “Ah, but it wasn’t. _Molly_ came to you, and whatever moral compromises she has made since reuniting with Jim, she has not attacked or endangered either of us. I highly doubt she’d help him deceive you.”

“How can you possibly know that? She’s under his influence.”

“Well, for starters she didn’t have to tell you the woman worked for Jim. Did she share that information begrudgingly?”

John frowned. “Not really. She confessed as soon as I asked.”

“So she was truthful about the circumstances, even though she had to know you would object. Doesn’t sound very devious to me.” Sherlock sniffed.

“What if it’s a bluff? Make me think it’s all above board, drop my defences?”

The detective skewered him with a wry look. “Are you likely to drop your defences around someone you know is an assassin?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

“That _is_ the problem,” John growled, “You can’t have a relationship with someone you can never trust.”

“Don’t be stupid, John. I don’t trust Mycroft, and we’ve managed to collaborate when the occasion called for it.”

“That’s totally different. You don’t have to worry about Mycroft smothering you in your sleep.”

“If you say so.” The brunette muttered, absentmindedly running his fingers over the strings.

John flopped into his chair, hands gripping the armrests. “So you think I should meet her?”

“Why not? Sounds exciting. You need excitement, John. You crave it. That’s why none of your other dates last – they can’t keep you entertained.”

“Excuse me for wanting a stable, normal relationship.” He scoffed.

Sherlock smiled. “But you don’t. If you wanted something safe you wouldn’t have moved in with me.”

John ran a hand over his neck. “Molly said something similar.”

“She’s a smart girl.” The other man said, sounding a bit put out.

“But even if she’s not trying to trick me, why would she want to set me up with someone?” he tapped his fingers on the chair, “We’re not exactly friends. Why would she care if I’m in a relationship or not? Maybe Moriarty wants me distracted so he can get to you.”

“I think, from the screeches of your last two girlfriends, it is me who distracts you from them.”

John glared at him. “No need to sound smug about it.”

“Aren’t you always telling me people take an interest in their acquaintances? Perhaps Molly’s just being ‘nice’.” Sherlock clipped the word between his teeth with distaste.

“That’s almost worse. Is my love life so pathetic I need to accept blind dates from the criminal class?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You like to take risks, John. I understand physical danger and emotional distress are quite a different kind of pain, but you’ve been through more than most and survived. You can handle one date.”

The doctor sighed and pushed himself out of his chair, wandering towards the kitchen. “Gets himself a girlfriend and suddenly he’s a bloody expert.”

 

Jim looked up from his laptop as Molly walked in, breaking into a smile. “My sweet! How was breakfast?”

“Not great.” She sighed, taking off her scarf.

The genius resettled himself against the headboard. “Johnny wasn’t receptive to the idea?”

“He doesn’t trust me – I told you he wouldn’t.” Molly pouted.

“Sherly will talk him round.”

“Maybe. John can be very stubborn.” She huffed, curling up next to him and resting her head on his shoulder.

“Just wait, my own,” Jim smiled, “The good doctor is more open-minded than you think.”

*****

John turned his water glass absentmindedly, clearing his throat. He glanced at his watch without really seeing it, foot tapping under the table.

“What the hell am I doing here?”

He checked his watch again and sighed, taking a sip. The door opened and he glanced up, pausing as a pretty older blonde walked in. She wore a light blue blazer over a blouse and jeans, hair cut in a sensible bob. She looked like a school teacher: reliable, innocent, and definitely not dangerous. But then John didn’t look like much either. She smiled when she saw him, and he felt a strange rush of pride.

“You must be John.” She offered a hand.

“You must be Mary.” He shook, giving her an uneasy grin.

“For the moment.” She wrinkled her nose, taking a seat.

He gave an abrupt chuckle, the sound cut off as he cleared his throat again. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to be so blunt about it.”

Mary shrugged. “No point being shy.  You know enough about me to send most people running and yet here you are, so it can’t bother you too much.”

He looked down sheepishly. “Well I’m no wholesome schoolboy myself. Thought I should at least meet you, get my own impression.”

“How am I doing?” she grinned.

“So far so good,” he laughed, “What about me?”

Mary stuck her lip out thoughtfully. “Too early to tell, but I’m optimistic.”


	5. Chapter 5

“I don’t even understand why you’re having a wedding,” Sherlock grumbled, “You’ve got no one to invite.”

“That’s not true! You may be Nigel No-Mates but some of us have friends.” John muttered.

“Eloping would be far cheaper and simpler. I hear the Greek Islands are nice this time of year.”

The doctor sighed, giving up on his seating chart. “Sherlock, we need to keep up appearances. Mycroft doesn’t know about Mary’s work, and we want to keep it that way. Normal people with nothing to hide have proper weddings.”

Sherlock hummed. “Are you inviting him?”

“Uh, no,” he cleared his throat, “Didn’t think it would be appropriate, with Molly coming. Might cause some unnecessary tension.”

“Just a tad.” The other man drawled.

“What about Irene? I notice she hasn’t RSVP’d.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Irene is not the sort of woman who gets excited about weddings, or meeting whole rooms full of ordinary people. It will be hard enough for me; I wouldn’t inflict it on her.”

“But everyone needs a date at a wedding,” the doctor frowned, “It’s a day about love. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“Our relationship is not measured by traditional definitions of romance, John.”

“I caught you holding hands on the couch two days ago.”

Sherlock looked puzzled. “What’s wrong with that?”

Mary walked in, a cup of tea in each hand, and placed one on the table next to John. “There you go.”

“Thank you.”

“How are we coming with the serviettes?” she wandered over, taking a tentative sip.

He reached under the coffee table and pulled out a tray of napkins folded into various shapes. Mary’s brows shot up.

“I didn’t know there were so many options.”

Sherlock frowned. “This is the shortlist. After careful research, I’ve determined these six shapes are the most stable, most aesthetically pleasing by common standards and least likely to create uneven creases.”

“Very thorough,” Mary grinned, “I think we’ll go with that one in the corner. John, could you give me a hand in the kitchen for a minute? Mrs Hudson bought some stuff for sandwiches.”

“Uh, right. Dr Watson at your service.” He stood, following her into the other room.

Sherlock put aside his napkins and grabbed the seating plan, skimming the names until he found Molly. She was between Mrs Hudson and Lestrade at a table by the window, not too far from the bridal party. He clucked his tongue and quickly pulled off the Post-Its, swapping them with a crowd of John’s old school friends who were less likely to attract snipers – or drone surveillance.

John came in with a sheepish look, hands in his pockets. “Apparently my services weren’t quite up to scratch.”

“Hmm.”

He crept closer, glancing back at the kitchen. “Everything looks great, Sherlock.”

“I’m 87% confident things will proceed without any hiccups.”

“That’s a good percentage! Good, good, really good…”

Sherlock finally looked up, quirking a brow. John sighed.

“Listen, I’m going barmy. I feel like my life’s been taken over by an endless stream of decisions that I don’t really understand. No one cares about my opinion anyway – you and Mary seem to have things pretty much sorted.”

“87% sorted.”

“Right, yes, 87% sorted,” John lowered his voice, holding out his phone, “But I need a break. Please, I am exhausted. Pick a case so I can get the hell out of here and do some real work.”

Sherlock frowned. “But the seating-”

“I’m begging you not to finish that sentence. I’ve been on battlefields less politically charged than that seating chart. I need a rest and fresh air before I can face it again.”

The detective gave him a sombre look, nodding as he took the phone. “I’ll find something.”

Mary stuck her head in. “Lunch is ready.”

“Uh, actually sweetheart, Sherlock and I are going to do a bit of…shopping.”

“Shopping?”

“Socks,” John blurted, “For the wedding.”

Sherlock gave a tight smile. “Right. Don’t want him getting cold feet.”

She made sure he was looking at the screen before giving John a wink. “It’s not _his_ feet I’m worried about.”

*****

Sherlock stood by the altar with a bored expression as John chatted to the vicar, the brunette’s gaze drifting over the guests as they filed in. He glanced at his watch – if things were going smoothly for Mary, she would be arriving at the church in exactly eleven minutes and thirty-eight seconds, factoring in the good weather and lack of traffic. He looked up again in time for Lestrade to catch his eye and wave. Sherlock returned it begrudgingly, quickly averting his gaze – and stopping as Molly walked in, arm linked with Jim’s.

The criminal looked positively suburban in a suit and tie far below his usual standard, the tie a pale yellow that matched Molly’s sundress. They sidled into a pew at the back, Moriarty’s hand hovering over the small of her back protectively. Jim looked up and grinned at Sherlock, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“Excuse me.” He spat.

John frowned. “Sherlock, we’re about to get started!”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

He hurried across the church, sidestepping children and maiden aunts until he reached the back row, stopping next to their pew.

“Hi, Sherlock,” Molly chirped, “You look nice.”

Jim smiled at the detective, placing an arm around her shoulders. “Doesn’t he just? Practically edible – purple’s definitely your colour, Sherly.”

“I don’t recall seeing your name on the guest list.”

“I’m Molly’s plus one. You can’t go to a wedding _alone_ , honey.” He scoffed.

“Don’t worry, he’s promised to behave.” She said, squeezing Jim’s knee for emphasis.

“Besides, without me this charming occasion wouldn’t even be happening! I think I’ve earned a bit of free booze and dancing.”

“John and Mary have quite enough to worry about today without you bothering them.” Sherlock scowled.

“That hurts, Sherly. I’ve no intention of bothering anyone.”

“You don’t think your presence might make them uncomfortable?”

“Miss Morstan has no problem with me, and her husband-to-be has no problem with her. I think we’ll all manage to get along for the day.”

“I sincerely hope so. It would be a shame to cause a spectacle after all the time I spent on playlists.”

“Looking forward to it.” Jim beamed.

Sherlock spun around and stalked back to the altar, John looking relieved.

“There you are. What was that about?”

“Just an unexpected arrival – nothing to concern yourself with.”

Normally John would have pushed, but instead he took a shaky breath and tried to smile. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands then.”

“Relax, John. By my calculations we have…six minutes and seventeen seconds until your future wife arrives, and only a 35% chance that something will go horribly wrong in that time.”

The doctor looked at him glumly. “Thanks.”

 

“Now lean in a bit closer…that’s perfect. Smile!”

John tilted his head, one arm tight around Mary’s waist, and waited for the camera flash.

“Great, now look at each other…”

The two blondes beamed at each other, descending into giggles.

“This is surreal.” John muttered.

“I feel like I’m on something,” she whispered back, “I’m all light-headed.”

“That’s the dopamine, Mrs Watson.”

“Good diagnosis, Dr Watson.”

“And now can I get you to turn around, Mary?” the photographer gestured, “John, if you could put your arms around her waist?”

They changed position, John’s gaze sweeping the crowd as he waited for the next instruction. Sherlock was talking to Janine, who actually seemed to be enjoying herself if the laughter was an indication. Greg was talking to the vicar, and Mrs Hudson was hugging Molly, who was with…

His arms tightened around Mary and she frowned, arching her neck to look back at him. “John?”

“What is Moriarty doing here?” he hissed.

She glanced over, brows shooting up when she spotted the genius. “I didn’t invite him.”

He started to pull away and she grabbed his hands.

“No, wait. Sherlock?”

The detective looked up and Mary jerked her head, somehow managing to keep smiling for the photos. Sherlock excused himself and came over, hovering just out of shot. “What’s wrong? We don’t need to leave for another twelve minutes and twenty-two seconds.”

“Can you give us a second?” she grinned at the photographer, taking John’s hand and moving closer to the church with Sherlock close behind.

As soon as they were out of earshot, John swore. “What the hell is he doing here, Sherlock? Did Molly tell you she was bringing him?”

“No. I think it was one of his whims, actually – an attempt to ruffle our feathers.”

“Okay, mission accomplished. Get rid of him.”

The detective frowned. “How?”

“I dunno! Lestrade’s here – tell him to call for backup.”

Mary made a face. “Moriarty wouldn’t have come without an escape plan. He’d be long gone by the time the Yard arrived.”

“And he doubtless has protection around, so no hope ambushing him in the receiving line.” Sherlock added.

“Besides, don’t think he’d be too keen to employ me again if we got him arrested.” She smirked.

John’s lip curled. “It’s not funny. That maniac strapped a bomb to my chest, and I’m supposed to give him cake and pretend it didn’t happen? I mean, I’ve turned a blind eye to a lot of questionable things where Moriarty is concerned, for Molly’s sake and for yours, but this is really a bit much.”

Mary rested a hand on his good shoulder, stroking his chest. “Sweetheart, we’ve been in moral no-man’s-land since we met. Having Jim at our wedding is no worse than letting me work for him. At least nobody’s going to die because of it.”

“It’s still early.”

Sherlock sighed. “John, if Moriarty wanted to make trouble he doesn’t have to be here to do it. And Molly’s with him – he won’t hurt anyone she cares about.”

“You don’t have to be best mates with him, just shake his hand and move on.”

John huffed. “Fine. We’ll all play nice and enjoy the day.”

“That’s the spirit.” Sherlock clapped him on the arm.

The doctor looked between them “I hate when you two gang up.”

“Get used to it.”

 

When Jim and Molly reached the front of the receiving line, John managed a smile that looked like it would break his teeth.

“Molly, good to see you,” he kissed her cheek, “Jim.”

“Congratulations, Johnny boy. Beautiful ceremony – honestly, I teared up.” He pressed a hand to his chest.

“Surprised you’d come all this way,” the blond’s jaw twitched, “Take time out of your busy schedule. I didn’t realise you were so fond of us.”

“I love a good party. And I wanted to deliver our gift in person.”

He reached into his jacket and took out an envelope, offering it to Mary. Sherlock made a grab for it but the bride got there first, carefully tearing it open while John held his breath.

“Oh my god,” Mary gaped, “This is too much.”

John peered over her shoulder at a cheque with a lot of zeros, jaw dropping. He glanced at Sherlock and the detective shrugged, already bored at the lack of explosions.

“A little something to get you established,” Jim sniffed, “And to show my gratitude for your fine work.”

“We can’t accept this,” the doctor pressed his lips together, “Not when I know how you earned it.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “John, who do you think pays Mary? The money doesn’t fall out of the sky.”

“She’s right, love,” Mary squeezed his arm, “Thank you, Jim – and Molly, of course.”

“Mary-” John protested.

“Now’s not the time to discuss it.” She smiled, voice full of steel.

“Mrs Watson’s right, as usual,” Jim took Molly’s arm, “And you’ll take the money, Johnny. Sherlock knows why. Shall we?”

“See you inside.” Molly waved, walking past.

John scowled after them as Mary tucked the cheque safely into her purse. The blond’s frown deepened.

“What did he mean, Sherlock knows?”

The detective spun to greet the next guest. “Come on John, lots of people to get through!”

*****

“Pray silence for the best man.”

“ _Finally_.” Jim sighed, clapping with the rest of the guests as Sherlock stood and buttoned his jacket, glancing at John for encouragement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends and…um…others.”

He looked pointedly at Jim, who gave a smug smile.

“Uh…” his eyes drifted, face blank, “A-also…”

Molly frowned. “Oh no.”

“Have some faith, my own,” Jim murmured, “Once he gets started, we won’t be able to shut him up.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, gaze shifting to the windows as he struggled to remember the opening line of his speech. “Irene?”

“Irene?” John blinked, following Sherlock’s gaze, “Oh, Irene!”

The Woman stepped through the garden door in a demure emerald sheath, taking off her sunglasses. She gave John and Mary a wave, and the assassin returned it, pointing out a free seat at a table near the front. Irene nodded and wove her way through, blowing Sherlock a kiss.

The detective flinched as if struck and inhaled sharply, shaking his curly head. “John Watson. My friend, John Watson. When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused. I confess at first I didn’t realise he was asking me.”

Jim turned slightly and caught Irene’s eye, throwing her a wink. “Would you look at that? Seems they’re quite the couple. We can chalk another one up to my brilliant planning.”

Molly stifled a laugh. “Yes, dear. Maybe you should open a service.”

“I’d make a fortune.” He muttered.

“But anyway…let’s talk about John,” Sherlock continued, “Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss. So know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved – in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

Mrs Hudson whimpered, blowing her nose loudly. Molly dashed a hand over her eyes and leaned her head on Jim’s shoulder, the criminal smiling as he placed a hand on her knee.

“I had no idea Sherly could be so sentimental about his pets.”

The detective seemed to hear him, glancing over with an almost embarrassed look, and Jim blinked innocently.

“Anyway…on to some funny stories about John.”

 

Sherlock launched into the Bloody Guardsman case, perhaps embellishing more than usual thanks to the attentive look on Jim’s face; the other genius leaned forward eagerly as he spoke, hand entwined with Molly’s. Sherlock wondered for the hundredth time how often Moriarty read John’s blog; he seemed to have an affinity for trashy pop culture.

Irene was equally distracting – she’d obviously heard the story before, but she had that ravenous look she always got when he started showing off, and he couldn’t quite shake a smirk.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: a murderer who can walk through walls, a weapon that can vanish – but in all of this there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?”

He glanced at Jim, who arched a brow and inclined his head to indicate the detective should let someone else have a go. The other guests looked puzzled, murmuring softly.

“Come on, come on, there is actually an element of Q and A to all of this.” Sherlock drawled, looking disappointed.

The room was silent, none of the guests brave enough to venture a response.

“Scotland Yard – have you got a theory?”

Greg looked up, chewing his lips thoughtfully. “Er, um, if the, uh, if the, if-if-if, if the blade was, er, propelled through the, um...grating in the air vent...maybe a-a ballista or a – or a – or a catapult. Erm, somebody tiny could-could crawl in there. So, yeah, we’re loo-we’re looking for a-a-a-a dwarf.”

Jim pressed a hand over his mouth, brow frozen in an odd, wrinkled half-frown as he tried to hold in a giggle. Molly nudged him with a disapproving look as the detective inspector turned red.

“Brilliant.” Sherlock blinked.

“Really?” Lestrade brightened.

“No. There was one feature, and only one feature, of interest in the whole of this baffling case, and quite frankly it was the usual. John Watson – who, while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life.”

Mary laughed, resting her hand over John’s as he gave a shy smile.

“There are mysteries worth solving and stories worth telling. The best and bravest man I know – and on top of that he actually knows how to do stuff. Except wedding planning and serviettes – he’s rubbish at those.”

The guests laughed, John giving a self-deprecating shrug.

“I’m not just here to praise John–“

“Oh, is that what you were doing?” the blond guffawed.

“-I’m also here to embarrass him, so let’s move on to some-”

“Hang on,” Lestrade sat up, “How was it done?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock raised his brows.

“The stabbing.”

He hung his head, staring at his plate as he idly traced the edge with one long finger. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I didn’t solve that one. That’s... It can happen sometimes.”

His eyes flicked to Jim so fast the criminal almost missed it.

“Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night. Of course there’s hours of material here, but I’ve cut it down to the really good bits.”

 

Jim couldn’t decide what he liked more, the intimate look into Sherlock’s human side or the detail of his cases, listening to man describe how his beautiful mind worked. The speech would have been boring sappy nonsense if not for the casually laid out deductions, but with Sherlock the sappy nonsense was itself intriguing. Crashing the Watsons’ wedding was turning out to be one of his better ideas.

“I can read a crime scene the way he can understand a human being. I used to think that’s what made me special – quite frankly, I still do.”

“I’ll say, honey.” Jim muttered.

“But a word to the wise, should any of you require the services of either of us. I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that – I should know. He’s saved mine so many times, and in so many ways.”

He held up his phone.

“This blog is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures - of murder, mystery and mayhem. But from now on, there’s a new story. A bigger adventure. Ladies and gentlemen, pray charge your glasses and be upstanding.”

Jim grabbed his glass, sliding an arm around Molly’s waist as they stood.

“Today begin the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson. The two reasons why every single one of us is ...” Sherlock trailed off, eyes glazing over, seemingly blind to the photographer’s flash.

“What’s wrong now?” Molly whispered, frowning at the frozen detective.

“…here today.”

Sherlock’s champagne slipped from his hand and smashed, but he only looked blankly at the broken shards.

“Oh, sorry. I…”

Jim grabbed Molly’s elbow. “Something’s awry, my love. Look sharp now.”

She nodded, placing her drink back on the table as Sherlock, his own glass replaced, tried again.

“Now, where were we?”

He glanced around the room anxiously. Jim caught Lestrade and Mrs Hudson exchanging a worried look.

Sherlock shook his head. “Ah, yes. Raising glasses and standing up. Very good. Thank you. And now if you’d be seated?”

There was a murmur of confusion as the guests sat, glasses still in hand. Molly caught Jim’s eye.

“Should we do something?”

Sherlock jumped over the bridal table and a couple of the women gasped. The pathologist clutched his sleeve in earnest.

“Jim! Help him!”

The detective was walking between the tables, gaze raking the faces turned towards him disbelievingly. “Part two is more action-based. I’m gonna walk around, shake things up a bit. Who’d go to a wedding? That’s the question. Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding?”

 

“Ah.” Jim said flatly.

“Ah?” Molly frowned.

“Obvious.”

He stood, straightening his jacket as Sherlock turned to look.

“Depends on the wedding.” Jim smiled.

“Indeed,” the detective grinned back, “And isn’t this a good one? Mary and John, lovely couple, lots of friends.”

“Family?” the criminal suggested, wandering closer.

“Not so much,” Sherlock scanned the room, “Lots of new faces.”

“Questions to be answered.” Jim nodded sagely.

“Answers to be questioned.” He returned.

“Uh, is this turning into an impression of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?” John stood.

Sherlock laughed. “Oh John, always so impatient – like that time with the Vatican cameos.”

Irene’s eyes widened, flicking around the room as the doctor blanched and dropped back in his chair. Jim caught Molly’s eye and jerked his head at the exit, and she quickly pulled out her phone, texting under the table. Sherlock saw the gesture and gave Jim a grateful smile.

“Let’s play a game.” The criminal announced loudly, manic grin on his face.

“Good idea,” the brunette turned, “Let’s play murder.”

Mrs Hudson groaned. “Sherlock, it’s a wedding.”

“Exactly. Imagine someone’s going to get murdered at a wedding. Who would you pick?”

“I’d go for the dramatic angle,” Jim smirked, “Bride, groom. Both if I was feeling frisky.”

Greg stared at him in horror, glancing between Jim and Molly as if hoping someone would say he was joking. John just gave him a dirty look.

“Ah, but you could kill them anywhere, don’t have to wait for an audience.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

“Maybe the audience is the point.”

The rest of the room seemed to disappear as Sherlock turn to consider him, arms folded over his chest. “Doubtful. No one need go to any considerable lengths to find out if the engaged parties will be at their own ceremony – goes without saying.”

Jim pursed his lips. “Someone who doesn’t get out much then. The exception.”

“Someone with an enemy. Scorned lover, perhaps?” Sherlock shot Mrs Hudson’s date a look.

“Not intimate enough,” Jim did his own inspection of the guests, “More likely someone who’s not close to their intended victim.”

Sherlock raised a brow pointedly but Jim gave a slight tilt of his head. No one knew Moriarty was coming to the wedding in advance.

“Someone with a vendetta.” The other man said, turning to lock eyes with a man in military uniform in the corner.

Jim curled his lip into another mischievous smile. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

 

“The who’s only the first part of the question.” Sherlock said, grabbing a name card off a nearby table, taking out a pen.

“True,” Jim watched as he casually wandered around the room, “You need the how.”

“How to kill someone in front of a hundred witnesses and not get caught.”

“You’re assuming they don’t want to get caught.”

Sherlock shrugged, flicking the name card into Major Sholto’s lap. “The victim would be dead by now if that was the case. No need to bide your time if you’re going in guns blazing.”

Archie the usher jumped to his feet. “Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes!”

“Yes? You’ve got a theory? Can’t be worse than Greg’s.”

“The invisible man could do it.” The boy beamed.

Sherlock looked at him blankly but Jim cackled. “Ah, from the mouths of babes! Keep an eye on that one, Sherly, he might be a suitable replacement for Dr Watson someday.”

Both of them looked over as Major Sholto left the room. Sherlock ran towards the top table, snatching up his champagne.

“To the bride and groom!”

Jim didn’t wait for them to repeat it, taking off after the old soldier. Sholto made no attempt to hide, heading straight for his room without a backward glance. The door slammed just as Jim trotted up the stairs. He didn’t bother knocking; instead he leaned against the wall and folded his arms, watching with a sly smile.

A minute later Sherlock burst onto the landing, Mary and John at his heels, Irene and Molly hovering close behind. The pathologist gave a relieved sigh when she saw Jim and hurried to embrace him, Irene shooting Sherlock a look but keeping her distance.

“He shut himself in for a tantrum.” The criminal drawled.

“Why do you care?” John frowned.

“I don’t, poppet. Just wanted to catch the end of the show.”

Sherlock ignored them both, knocking loudly before trying the handle. “Major Sholto? Major Sholto!”

“If someone’s about to make an attempt on my life, it won’t be the first time,” he called, voice muffled by the door, “I’m ready.”

“Oh let him,” Jim beamed, “It’ll be such fun.”

“Shut up!” John huffed, “Major, let us in.”

“Stand aside.” Mary fumbled with her skirts.

The doctor looked bewildered. “What are you going to do, kick the door down in your dress?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea – do you, Sherlock?” Jim said pointedly.

“What the bloody hell is he talking about!” John growled.

Sherlock turned towards the door. “You’re not safe in there. Whoever’s after you, we know that a locked room doesn’t stop him. I don’t know how he does it, so I can’t stop him, and that means he’ll do it again.”

“Solve it, then,” Sholto said angrily, “You’re the famous Mr Holmes. Solve the case. On you go.”

“I wish I had popcorn.” Jim tittered to Molly.

 

Mary turned to Sherlock. “He’s right. No use going in there if we don’t have a plan.”

“If I couldn’t solve it before, how can I solve it now?”

“Because now there are two of you, right?” John glared at Moriarty, “Two smart arse drama queens who love to outdo each other. Figure it out!”

Jim arched a brow. “What makes you think I’ll help?”

“Because if you don’t, a man’s going to die!”

“Boring.” He gave a fake yawn.

John started to yell and pressed his lips together instead, the skin turning white. “Fine. Because you’ve got a raging hard-on for Sherlock’s brain!”

“John.” Molly tutted.

“Crude as ever, Johnny, but not incorrect,” Jim pushed himself off the wall, biting his lip as he dragged his eyes down Sherlock’s body, “Come on then, honey. Work it for Daddy.”

His gaze narrowed but he fisted his hands, thinking. “Private Bainbridge.”

“Both military.”

“One on duty, one discharged.”

“Knew each other?”

“Not likely,” Sherlock shook his head, “Stabbed in a locked room.”

“Impossible.”

Sherlock scowled at him, but the criminal shrugged.

“It is. Ghosts don’t kill people, Sherly.”

“So…stabbed beforehand.” He closed his eyes.

John frowned. “I think Private Bainbridge would have noticed that.”

Jim gave him a scornful look. “Honestly, why does he keep you around?”

“Two soldiers.” Sherlock looked at the door.

“I love a man in uniform.”

The detective knocked loudly. “Major Sholto, no one’s coming to kill you. I’m afraid you’ve already been killed several hours ago.”

“What?”

“Don’t take off your belt.”

Jim gave an appreciative groan. “Oh Sherly, I do love watching you work.”

“Down, boy.” Irene pursed her lips wickedly.

The genius smiled. “Give me a call if you ever feel like sharing.”

She quirked a brow, glancing at Molly. “Likewise.”

John stared at all of them, shaking his head. “How is this my life right now?”

Mary nudged him. “You love it.”

Sherlock shushed them. “Major Sholto, you’ve been stabbed through your belt. Right now it’s holding the wound shut, but if you take it off you’ll bleed out. Let us in.”

 

There was silence. John gave him a desperate look. “Whatever you’re doing in there, James, stop it, right now. I will kick this door down.”

“Jim, I think we should go.” Molly tugged his arm.

“But the performance isn’t over yet.”

“It’s not a bloody performance!” John snapped.

Jim sighed and rolled his eyes. “Oh for God’s sake.”

He reached into the back of his pants and pulled out a gun, firing between the doctor and Sherlock. The round hit the lock with a thud and the door swung open, Sholto staring at them in shock. John didn’t move, too stunned to be angry.

“Well? Get on with it, Johnny!” Jim scoffed, holstering his weapon, “We’re missing the party.”

He hurried into the room, Mary following, and closed the door.

“What a blast! I have to say, we make a good team, Sherly. We should collaborate more often.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “You brought a handgun to a wedding?”

“You never know.”

Molly gave a sharp, awkward laugh. “Well, I’m ready for cake.”

“Me too! Let’s hope that fatty Lestrade hasn’t eaten it all.” Jim offered his arm, leading her downstairs.

Sherlock watched them go, shaking his head, and looked up as The Woman sauntered towards him.

“Sorry I was late,” Irene kissed his cheek, “You were magnificent.”

“I know.”

She laughed, and Sherlock slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against his body. He rested his lips on her brow.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

“Really? I thought you’d find it all a bit…trite.”

She clucked her tongue, straightening his tie. “No one wants to go to a wedding alone, Sherlock.”

*****

Sherlock finished the waltz with a flourish as John and Mary kissed, the crowd cheering. He took his buttonhole from the music stand and threw it to Irene, the dominatrix catching it deftly and blowing him a kiss in return.

“Ladies and gentlemen, one last thing before the evening begins properly.”

“Oh God, he’s not startin’ again?” Lestrade grumbled.

“Today we saw two people make vows. I’ve never made a vow in my life, but who knows?” Sherlock smiled, “For now, I’ll make this one. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you. Er, sorry, I mean, I mean two of you. All two of you. Both of you, in fact. I’ve just miscounted.”

He motioned to the DJ and the lights started flashing, an old disco tune starting loudly. Jim turned to the pathologist.

“Shall we?”

“I’d love to.” she let him lead her onto the floor, the first of several couples to take the plunge.

The genius held her close, hands clasped as he threw back his head gleefully. “I love this song.”

“It’s turned out to be an alright day, considering the attempted murder and rambling speeches and everything.”

“Who doesn’t love a bit of drama at a wedding? Wouldn’t be a proper occasion without a crisis.”

“They seem happy though,” Molly looked over his shoulder at John and Mary, “Actually, they seem a bit shocked.”

“Probably because Sherlock’s finally told them about the baby.”

“What baby?” Molly gaped at him, “Not Sherlock and Irene?”

Jim laughed. “Goodness no, though wouldn’t that just be the most outrageous thing? No, Mary’s pregnant.”

She squeaked, burying her face in his neck. “That’s amazing! Oh gosh, they’re going to be such good parents.”

“They’ve had plenty of practice.”

“Oh wow,” she shook her head as they turned on the spot, “That’s great news.”

Jim dipped her and she giggled, tugging her back to her feet with a quick spin. “Have you ever thought about it?”

“Thought about what?”

“Having kids.”

Molly stumbled, the genius catching her as she stared at him agape. Jim started a slow sway and she feel into the rhythm, studying his face.

“I suppose I used to, when I was little. And these was a time at the hospital when I thought maybe someday I’d meet a nice man and we’d have a family. But things are a little more complicated now.”

“They don’t have to be.”

She gave him a dubious look. “Yes they do. You’d go crazy if life was simple.”

“From what I’ve seen, raising children is seldom simple.”

“Are you serious right now?” she stopped moving, stepping back.

Jim shrugged. “I might be. You know how I am, Moll, always changing my mind.”

He pulled her back against him, mouth next to her ear.

“Wouldn’t wanna have them with anyone else though, my own.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

 

“Dance.” Sherlock blurted.

John frowned. “Hmm?”

“Both of you, now, go dance. We can’t just stand here. People will wonder what we’re talking about.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat.

“Come on, husband. Let’s go”

Mary dragged him away, the two of them giggling. Sherlock smiled, eyes sweeping the room. Molly and Jim were dancing nearby, the pathologist giving him a grin.  Lestrade, having dealt with their murderous photographer, was talking to a bridesmaid but he was destined to strike out. Mrs Hudson and Mr Chatterjee were shuffling awkwardly on the edge of the dance floor. Everyone was happy, everyone was having fun. No one was watching him. Sherlock slipped towards the exit, weaving his way through the dancers.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

He looked up as Irene cupped a hand around his neck. “Seemed like a good time to leave, before I make another public speaking faux pas.”

“Your manners are appalling, Sherlock. I got all dressed up, and you’re not even staying for a dance?”

He smiled, offering his hand. “One.”

Irene smiled and curled her other hand around his neck, their bodies touching as they swayed quite out of time with the beat. “I bet I could give you a reason to stick around.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Would you let me?” she asked, eyes searching his for something.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “Maybe.”

Irene glanced at the Watsons. “Is this about John? He’s not going anywhere, Sherlock.”

“I know. It’s not about him.”

“Oh?” she said, a touch breathless, “Then why the sudden change of heart?”

“I like you. You’re clever, attractive by common Western conventions-”

“Oh, you flatterer.” Irene smirked.

“-neither of which have ever interested me much. But I find…I like you. I enjoy your conversation, and not just when we’re discussing puzzles or playing games.”

“Oh.” She said quietly, smile wavering.

“I know you rarely seek emotional attachment but you seem to like my company, or at least tolerate it. Maybe we could…explore that.” He finished lamely.

“Sherlock Holmes, you are full of surprises.”

“Thanks.”

Irene’s lip twitched, and she leaned forward to kiss him softly. “Sounds fun.”

“You’re sure?”

“Are you going to ask me to stop seeing clients?”

“No. Would you ask me to stop taking cases?”

“Never.”

“Then I don’t foresee any problems.”

She grinned. “Aside from you being an asexual sociopath and me being a notorious lesbian sex worker? Absolutely none.”

“We’d need to start slow.” Sherlock muttered.

Irene crooked a finger and tilted his chin, expression soft. “Don’t worry, gorgeous. I’ll be gentle.”


End file.
